John reflected as he walked back to his lodging on the small matters on which great effects sometimes hang. This wretched fellow—hoping to get something out of a poor woman whose husband was a felon, but who was probably living in decent obscurity somewhere, keeping this dreadful fact from the knowledge of those about her—had pronounced the name which the boy had not heard for ten years, and thus, by an accident which had nothing whatever to do with John, had thrown a light upon the boy’s life. At this moment it was not a very comfortable light. The gleam it had thrown had not brought peace, but the reverse. It had awoke difficulties, troubles which no doubt were there and must have come into evidence some time, though not necessarily now. John did not feel that he had any reason to be grateful to the returned convict who had all unawares, by mere chance, thrown that passing gleam upon his way. But it was very strange to him to think how such things come about—perhaps by mere accident, if there was such a thing as mere accident in the world (John had touched the edge of philosophy, and liked to think that he had thought on such subjects), perhaps in the elaborate arrangements of a purpose which regulates the world in matters both small and great. It gave him a sense of pleasure that such high mysteries should come into his mind in connection with his own little affairs, and yet it was no doubt just as wonderful, nay, more so, that a sparrow can not fall without Divine Providence noting that infinitesimal event, than if the schemes of heaven concerned only nations and principalities and powers. He said to himself, following out that line of thought (and liking himself for the impulse to do so), that if one thing, then another; and that if God’s purposes regulated one act of human affairs, they must regulate all, for nothing could be small or great with Him. And whatever happened, though the present effect of the revelation had been perhaps more painful than pleasant it was always best to know. He said to himself that it is always best to know. Supposing there is anything unpleasant in the antecedents of your family, supposing they are less dignified, less well-off than you may now suppose, still to know is a great matter. He was determined to leave no stone unturned to find out why it was that he was not to be allowed to come to Liverpool, and what harm it was supposed that he should get there, and how his name, his father’s name, was connected with it, and why he was forbidden to bear that name. These were momentous questions, but they were not of that kind which he could get solved by any of the ordinary means of procuring information.
On the last morning of his stay in Liverpool, John, being alone for an hour or two, set out with a distinct determination on his mind to do something, to leave not a stone unturned. He had already, when going about with the curate, fixed his mind upon this. Indeed it was never out of his mind. What had he come here for but with the determination to find out something, to find out everything if it were possible? He had gone about always on the look out, with his eyes open; but there had been nothing either said or done within his ken which threw any light upon his subject. On the last morning he was left alone, Mr. Cattley having business to execute with his brother, and John felt that now was his opportunity. He went out about ten o’clock with all the advantage of being by himself and unhindered by anyone else’s business. By this time he had become a little accustomed to the place and knew his way about. He walked along straight in front of him, looking at all the shop windows and the names over the doors. He did not quite see what help was to be got out of that—but still he went on, observing everything, hoping that perhaps some street corner might awaken his own dormant recollection, or something that would give him a better guidance catch his eye. He meant to leave no stone unturned.
Was there ever a wilder undertaking than to try to find information about an unknown family by walking about the streets of a great city? When he had walked for an hour or two, and began to feel tired, the futility of this mode of research suddenly struck him. It did not seem likely that he could do it in this way, when he came to think of it. But how was he to do it? In what way was he to turn the metaphorical stone under which knowledge might be hid?
He found himself in front of the Exchange when he woke up to this view of the question. He went in timidly by the archway through which so many men were streaming, and found himself suddenly in the midst of a sea of men, all intent upon affairs which seemed life and death to them, all too much absorbed in their own business to give any attention to the boyish stranger. Sometimes there would arise a clamour of voices speaking together, then this momentary storm would be over, and a lower hum of many voices, a sound of feet, the murmur of a crowd would be all that met his ear. And now and then this human tide would be moved like the sea by a wave setting in one direction, and then would break off into eddies and sweeps of current here and there. John was very much interested by this sight. He had heard of such assemblies so often—the characteristic heads, the strange sombre important aspect of this crowd of men, the faces full of meaning and earnestness, affected him with mingled awe and interest. They had the affairs of half the world in their hands; many of them had a look of wealth, money written all over their substantial persons; and then there were the shabby ones, more exciting still to look at, with a hungry eagerness in their faces. The boy forgot himself altogether and stood for a long time watching them, pushed aside, now to one corner, now to another by the stream. Then it suddenly occurred to him that he was neglecting his quest. He wondered whether if he had the courage to call out in the midst of them all and ask whether they knew anything of his father he might perhaps acquire some information. But then shrank away into a corner ashamed of himself, wondering what all those occupied men would think of him if he disturbed their business consultations and arrangements with such a question. If John had done so, no doubt the merchants would have been delighted. It would have been a delightful story to carry home: ‘To-day on ‘Change the funniest thing happened. A young fellow of seventeen or so, evidently fresh from the country, got up suddenly and asked if anyone was known there by the name of May!’ That is what the merchants and stockbrokers would have told their families with great satisfaction. But the idea filled John with shame and sudden discomfiture. He saw for the first time how ridiculous were his hopes, and how impossible it was that he should discover anything in this way.
It was half from shame, to recover from the self-ridicule of this unaccomplished idea, that he plunged into a great public reading-room, where he sat down to recover himself. True, he had not done anything to be ashamed of, but the intention was so vivid that he felt as if he had done it, and threw himself into a seat in a tremor of excitement, his heart beating exactly as if he had carried that wild fancy into action. By-and-by, when he recovered himself, he turned over a newspaper or two mechanically, not knowing what he was doing, and feeling a confused calm in this atmosphere—the quiet which was in the heart of the tumult, a noiseless room within and the roar of the traffic and the multitude without. While he thus sat in a kind of half-dazed condition his eye fell upon a large thick volume, which was the directory of the town. It seemed to him that an expedient more possible, more practicable, was here afforded to him. He got up hurriedly, and turned it over, finding without difficulty the name of a number of Mays. It was a May who was the Mayor even. If he had asked the merchants in the Exchange, there was no doubt this was what they would have thought he meant.
Then John went out again, and went straight to the Town Hall, which had been pointed out to him, and which was close to the Exchange. He went, not knowing very well what he was doing; and though he was shy by nature, not venturesome, pushed his way through the town officers and officials, and asked to see the Mayor. To see the Mayor! Had he gone to Windsor Castle and asked to see the Queen, it would have been only a little less reasonable. What did he want with the Mayor? It was only when this question was asked him by a person of commanding presence and still more commanding costume, of the beadle race, that he came to himself. What did he want with the Mayor? To ask him if he could give any information as to some one of his name who ten years ago or thereabouts had lived in Liverpool (John supposed) and fallen into misfortune? Poor John made a very faltering explanation to the beadle, and shrank away, not without raising suspicions in that functionary, who watched him out of sight with a look which was not complimentary. And it was only then that the boy perceived the foolishness altogether of that fervent resolution of his to leave no stone unturned. What stone was there which he could hope to turn? What could he do? To appeal to the mayor because his name was May! He might just as well, he said to himself, have appealed to the ex-convict who had known some one of the name of May in prison. The one would really have been as sensible as the other, which was to say that both were folly itself. And, short of this appealing to some one, what was he to do?
He did, as may be supposed, nothing. When he went to meet the curate at the foundry in time for their train, he saw again the fellow who had known May the prisoner, and had a shame-faced laugh at himself as he thought of May the mayor. What if he were to interrogate this man, who was already his acquaintance, who touched his cap and brightened at sight of him, expectant of another shilling? The one, he said to himself, would be just as sensible as the other, and more easily carried out. When Mr. Cattley saw the recognition that passed between this labourer and his young companion he looked at John with surprise.
‘Do you know that man?’ he asked, upon which John entered into the story of his appearance at Edgeley, saying,
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘I think I remember something of the kind,’ said the curate, ‘but I wonder you recollect the looks of the fellow. He is not a very attractive-looking acquaintance.’